


Better With the Lights On

by AnneZo



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneZo/pseuds/AnneZo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John & Rodney wake up in the dark. Scientist-hysteria, epi-pens, and stupidity.</p><p>(Nothing explicit.)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Better With the Lights On

"You know," Rodney said, somewhere off to his right. "Sometimes it's hard to remember a time when I wasn't getting _kidnapped_ by _crazy psychos_ every other day."

"Know what you mean." John had to grit the words out through the jackhammers someone was using to split his skull. The flashes of light sparking off the pain were the only lights in the room. Cave. Cell. Whatever. Pretty darned dark, anyhow. Or, he was blind. _No_.

"At least you had real training. Me, I just sort of fell into it." Rodney sighed. "I blame you, Colonel. You and your Captain America complex. You're a bad influence."

"…don't get _trained_ to be kidnapped." John tried to breathe through the pain. Somewhere behind the jackhammers someone was talking about what to do if you got captured by the enemy but since the words didn't include giving up and dying from the pain, it didn't feel useful at the moment. Something soft touched his face. Rodney's hand? "What—?" It was oddly hard to talk.

"You didn't sit up." Rodney's voice sharpened. "You're in pain. Are you—did they—. _Ohmigod_ , are you injured?"

"Head," John breathed. " _Shhh_." He felt nauseous too, but that was probably a side-effect. Rodney's fingers combed through his hair gently and John thought about breathing. And about light. He wondered if he should tell Rodney he was blind?

"I don't feel anything." Rodney's voice was quieter this time. "No blood, no sign of injury."

" _Has_ to—." John didn't remember a party and anyhow, Pegasus galaxy, no tequila. 

Rodney's hand stroked down his face and his neck. "Colonel—John, I'm not finding any—wait—this is—." His fingers slid around something on John's collarbone. Something fumbled at John's arm and jerked at his sleeve. The unexpected movement set off the drilling in his head again and he hissed in pain. "Sorry." Rodney's fingers stroked up his arm lightly, feeling the surface of his skin in a way that might have been interesting to a man in less agony. "Does your tongue feel swollen? Are you nauseous?"

"Yes. Yes."

" _Damn, damn, damn_ ," Rodney cursed softly. "And we don't have—" John felt him move away and something—rocks? Something rolling against a stone floor as he moved. "I can't see—."

"Wha—?" Were they both blind? No.

"Allergic reaction," Rodney said, panicked. "If they left us—if I can find one of our packs—"

" _Flash_ ," John breathed through the pain, noticing, now that Rodney had mentioned it, that it was getting harder to breathe. His throat must be swelling up, yes. " _Vest_?"

"Of course," Rodney muttered. The sounds of moving stopped. "I'm an idiot. Don't panic, this is no time for panicking, you can do this."

A light came on, impossibly bright and painful and directly in John's eyes. He flinched away and the jackhammers took it up a notch. His stomach rolled and he gasped against the tightness in his throat. _Breathe, John_ , he told himself. _Calm_. He couldn’t afford to throw up, he needed all his energy to drag air into his lungs.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Rodney said. "Thank god." John heard the sound of more moving. "Our packs. They left us our packs. And," he sounded distracted. "That's weird. All our gear, including our weapons." John sucked air through the closing airway in his throat. "Oh, god," Rodney said, the panic level rising audibly. "Let me— If I can just—here it is." Things rattled and thumped against the floor.

A painful thud— _Rodney_. Panic attack. _Fainted_. John tried to move but his body wasn't listening to him. Sounds of frantic movement getting louder, then Rodney was there, at his side, something in his hand. Epi-pen, John realized. 

The battery in Rodney's pocket flash must be going out, the light was getting dimmer. John hoped Rodney had enough light to give him the injection because this experience was a bitch and John was ready for it to be over.

A new pain, in his leg. "Don't pass out on me, John," Rodney said fiercely, but his hand against John's cheek was gentle. "Stay with me. This should work. Just give it a few seconds." 

The blackness rolled in.

"John. _John_. Stay with me. _Breathe_.”

John thought about that. _Stay_. Yeah, that was right. You were supposed to stay. He struggled for another breath and found it coming easier. The light was still too close to his eyes but—. _Rodney_. Rodney was there, he needed to see. 

Gear. Rodney had said he had all his gear. That was good, he'd be able to get out of here. As for John—he was going to take a little nap. 

"I'm getting you out of here," Rodney said, his voice tight and high. Rodney-panic, level three. Not good. " _Alive_. Just—do it this time, just do what I say, follow orders. I'll get us out of here, okay, John? You can rely on me." His hand slapped John's cheek lightly. "Are you listening? John?"

"Go," John tried to say. _Escape_. 

"Okay, good." Rodney was stroking his face. It was nice. Grounding. The light in his other hand turned away, easing the glass-shards feeling in John's eyes. "I heard that. You're breathing. A little better, right?" John nodded, at least he tried to. "Come on. Breathe?" Words were too hard, but John took another breath, to prove it was possible. "Better," Rodney muttered. "Still not good. We can do it again. I have another one."

Rodney cupped his neck, his fingers warm against John's cold skin. "Breathe for me." 

John was breathing already, for himself; that was all he could manage at the moment. 

"Come on," Rodney coaxed. "I need to hear." John tried for a deep breath. He was getting air—not a lot, but air. "Not enough." John heard a rustle; the light swept across his face for an instant, then focused lower down. "Okay, one more time." Rodney stabbed him in the leg, which was a really nasty thing to do to a dying man. "I'm going to count to thirty. Listen to me, stay calm, and breathe. By the time I reach thirty, you'll be fine."

It sounded like a quote. John saw an eight year-old Rodney staring up at someone—his mother? Fighting for breath while he listened to the count, holding on with a child's faith to the promise of, 'all better soon'. John listened to Rodney's voice counting. It was sort of reassuring. Even if you weren't eight. The sound of someone beside you pushed back the dark.

"Better?" Rodney squeezed his neck, very gently. "Breathe for me. Deep breath."

John inhaled, getting a lot of air this time. "Fine. Go. Escape."

"And leave you here, dying from the _one_ medical condition I can actually be helpful and heroic about? I think not, Colonel." Rodney huffed—a laugh, John realized. "You're fine, yes, of course, you always say that. But, your breathing does sound a lot better, your heartbeat is—okay, it's there. Fast, but—." Rodney's hand on his neck hadn't been to comfort him; he'd been taking John's pulse. John was kind of disappointed about that. 

” _Two_ pens," Rodney muttered. "And we don't know what triggered it. We need to get you off this planet and into the infirmary, Colonel." 

The light danced around the room. John wasn't ready to risk it in his eyes, so he closed them. "John," he said, Air slipped into his lungs. Sweet, sweet air. "Head." He was pretty sure he'd breathe better if he could get up.

"Head— Oh, your head hurts? Not surprising, but I don't want to give you anything for it until—not for a while. If you can hold out?"

John nodded a little. Probably needed to stay flat for the same reason—whatever it was. He noticed that the jackhammers had been replaced by—maybe a hand drill. Painful, but not at all on the same level. "Good."

"Stay with me." Rodney's hand patted his cheek, stayed there, shaking. "I'm not a doctor, Col—John, but I know you need to stay conscious."

"Sure." John was really, really tired, but if Rodney needed him awake, he'd stay awake. "—'m good. Fine."

"Feeling better?"

"Yesss." John's throat was dry now. "All over."

"No, it's not all—oh, you mean you feel generally better? Good, that's good. That's a good sign."

Rodney used a lot of words. John was tracking better, but not that well. If any of that had been important, Rodney would probably repeat it. "Drink?"

"Yes, I know you're thirsty. But you need to sit up pretty straight to drink out of a water bottle. I don't want you to choke and you can't sit up until you can do it without vomiting. You think you can do that?"

Probably not. "Soon," John said. He felt ridiculously weak, but the black fog of oblivion wasn't threatening any more. He took another breath. Breathing was a highly underrated activity. Rodney's flash still skittered around the area, sparking less-painful but still sick-inducing shards of light. He closed his eyes again. It wasn't dark—he could open them any time and have light, so he was good.

"Okay, yeah." Rodney fingers stuttered over his cheek. "You're better. Getting better all the time. You'll be fine, you just need to rest for a couple of minutes."

"Head." John was feeling better all the time. "Up. Breathe." Of course, 'better' was comparative.

"Okay," Rodney said uncertainly. "But—your head is already elevated, John. I put the pack under it, remember?"

No, John didn't remember. "S'hard," he complained. 

"For the record, I wasn't this whiny when I was _eight_ and in the hospital." Rodney sounded grouchy but the hands that lifted John's head and shoulders were gentle and then a warm leg replaced the hard knobbiness that John had thought was rock under his skull.

"Worse," John guessed. 

"Don't abuse the only medical assistance you have," Rodney ordered. His hand hovered in the pale light and John grabbed it, pulling it to his chest.

"Pulse," he explained. Rodney's hand, and the leg under John's shoulders were the warmest things in the frigid cave—cell—room? Where in the hell were they?

Rodney's fingers flexed, then spread, just over John's heart. "If it stops beating, I'll let you know." His voice was back to concerned again, even though he was trying to make jokes. "You're cold, aren't you?"

John nodded. "Not you." He slitted his eyes open. Enough light to turn Rodney and the space around him to gray, with splashes of color where it hit the blue spots on Rodney's jacket.

"Shock." Rodney sounded resigned. "Of course. The full package." The leg under John's shoulders twisted and shifted—the warmth of Rodney's jacket settled over him. It helped, but the rocks under John's back—had to be rocks, which meant _cave_ , because no sane person would deliberately _build_ a floor this pokey—and, hey! A whole, linear thought! Anyhow. The rocks under John's back were like ice. He edged closer to Rodney, pretending like if he was just casual enough, Rodney wouldn't notice some guy climbing into his lap. "How's your stomach?" Rodney asked abruptly.

John tested the idea of actual movement. "Better. A lot better."

"You think you can sit up now?"

"Probably." John swallowed. "Worth a try. Don't wave the light."

"Light— Motion-sickness. Okay." Rodney put the flash down and took hold of John's shoulders. "We don't want to stress your system, so just try to stay relaxed. I'll lift you up, then you can help, okay?" It took longer than seemed reasonable, but eventually John was more or less sitting up, his back against Rodney's chest, which was infinitely less icy than the floor. And no vomiting, so medals all around. Rodney draped his jacket back over John's body. It helped, a little.

"Okay, here. One sip." A canteen was at John's mouth, so he took a sip. "Swallow," Rodney ordered. "We need to know if you can keep it down." 

The water went down. John took a breath. It stayed down. "Thirsty."

"Okay." Rodney sounded worried. "I guess it will be okay, as long as we don't overdo it."

John managed a couple of good-sized swallows before Rodney stole the water back. "Hey."

"In a couple of minutes," Rodney said firmly. He picked up the flash from the floor—yes, rocks—next to him and started flashing it around.

John closed his eyes and breathed. He really felt a lot—felt _amazingly_ better. "You get the plate of the Hive ship that ran over me?" He felt around, found Rodney's free hand, and pulled it to his leg where he could keep track of it. "'Cause I'm gonna sue."

"Never saw it coming," Rodney said. "Last I remember, we were at dinner, arguing about _Star Wars_." His fingers curved around John's thigh reassuringly.

"On M7G—whatever?" John frowned. "Why were we talking about _Star Wars_?" Rodney was so _warm_. He wanted to slide back closer to that warmth but it was too much work.

"I have no idea. You don't remember anything?"

"Nothing." John reached, but the black fog still covered whatever had happened. "Something I ate at dinner?"

"Possible, but highly unlikely. According to my watch, that was over six hours ago. If it was something you ate, you'd have died long before now, without treatment."

"That's comforting."

"Sorry." Rodney's arm against his side pressed closer. "It's sort of a fact of my life. I guess I'm just—used to the possibility. How about you? Warmer?"

"A little." He actually was. John pushed against the hand on his leg, holding the fingers there, feeling them move under his. "Won't happen, you know. We pay attention."

"I know you do." Rodney's fingers moved again, a squeeze. "I've noticed. And I can't tell you how—comforting, that is."

"I can guess." John nodded. Another deep breath and he was _never_ going to take oxygen for granted again. "Now."

"Yes, I suppose you can." They both thought about that for a while. "You think you're up to moving yet?"

"Yeah." The idea of standing up didn't make John's stomach flip-flop any more, although his muscles still felt a lot like cooked spaghetti. "You find the door?"

"I haven't looked yet." Because he'd been saving John's life. "I did try the radio. Something's blocking the signal, and the scanner's useless. If you're okay for a minute, I'll see what I can find."

"Go." John let loose of the warm hand reluctantly. "I'm fine."

" _Fine_ ," Rodney huffed. He squirmed around, the warmth disappeared, and was replaced by something cool and knobby. The pack. Rodney picked up the flash. "You have your own light, right?"

Of course he did. John felt around, then fished it out of his vest pocket. "Right here."

"Turn it on," Rodney ordered. "It will help me orient myself if this cave is bigger than I think it is."

 _Cave_. Point to John. He turned on the flash, letting the beam point down past his feet. "Talk to me?"

"Of course." Rodney kept up a stream of conversation as he explored their prison. "Okay, not as wide as I thought, the rocks are just all dead black, so that was an illusion. It's long, but we're on a sort of ledge Not particularly deep when you get off the ledge, but a lot more loose rocks."

"Door's probably near the ledge area," John called.

"Nothing," Rodney said from the distance. "Maybe I picked the wrong way." John heard the footsteps and saw the distant light bobbing as Rodney came back. "You okay?" His legs moved in the beam of John's flash before he stopped to kneel down, grunting in pain when his knee hit a rock. "How's your head?"

"Better."

Rodney felt his forehead. "You're sweating. Are you hot? Cold?"

"—'bout the same," John lied. The temperature was definitely dropping. His body shivered and he couldn't control it.

"Once again, with a little more honesty," Rodney said, impatiently. He could be inconveniently perceptive. 

"It's chilly in here," John admitted.

"Less than you might expect," Rodney muttered, tucking the jacket in tighter around him. He crawled in behind John again, and then it was all warm again. "Shock," he repeated. "I'll try to warm you a little, but I need to check out the rest of this place in a second, and get us out of here." John nodded. That was fine. In a second, he'd be warm and not-shaky. Rodney's arms came around his chest. Hugging. Hugging was good. "Look, I know you have enough to worry about at the moment, but I've been thinking. Why are we here? Alone, I mean? Where are Teyla and Ronon?"

"Oh, shit." John hadn't thought about their missing teammates. Were they in another cave, somewhere nearby? They both had epi-pens—if either of them reacted to—whatever had kicked John's butt, they had epi-pens, right? Would they remember to use them? _Teyla would_ , John realized. She'd remember.

"I mean, we have to assume they're looking for us, right?" 

For some reason, Rodney thought they weren't in another cell? Or, wishful thinking? " _Star Wars_." John struggled for a memory at the edge of his brain and tried to keep his voice steady. "Dinner. Then—did Teyla call? She was on the radio."

"Borlea," Rodney said. "That—the grain. She took a sample back to—oh, god, she's not here, she's on Atlantis." His heartbeat thudded against John's chest. Fast. Faster. Not as fast as John, though.

"Ronon went with her." John fought to remember more. "He—he carried the basket of rocks."

"Crystals," Rodney said automatically. "The crystals that I wanted Radek to look at. Power storage. She called you on the radio and said they were headed back. You said we were—there was a feast." 

"And she didn't want to come," John remembered triumphantly. "We decided—I told her that she and Ronon could come back—"

"—in the morning," Rodney finished. "I heard you. You said we were going to bed—going to sleep. That they could stay on Atlantis and meet us here in the morning. That is, 'here', assuming you and I are still on M7G-495." He checked his watch. "Which, with the time difference, probably an hour, maybe two, before they show up and find out we're missing?"

"Unless Atlantis tried to radio us, first thing this morning." More shivers, not even Rodney's warmth was enough now. John thought about fireplaces. Hot baths. "If they did, and we didn't answer, they've sent at least one full team back through by now. With Teyla and Ronon."

"Okay." Rodney sighed, his arms tightening around John. "There's at least a 50% chance they're looking for us already."

John sure as hell hoped that he and Rodney were still on M7G-495. "The other end of the ledge," John reminded him. "Unless we're going to sit here like fairytale princesses until the Marines come to rescue us."

"God forbid. I put up with enough slurs already." Rodney pulled the pack over and helped John lean against it. "You could go into deep shock while we sit here and braid our hair, so I think we need to be a little more proactive." He climbed to his feet. "I always wanted to go spelunking to save the life of a sick friend, anyhow. One of my life's ambitions, actually."

"Sorry." John burrowed into the jacket, fighting another wave of icy cold. "Give me a sec, I'll help." He wished Rodney hadn't moved.

"Oh, my god, you're dying." Rodney thumped back to his knees. "I'm being irrational and unfair and you're _apologizing_. You must be _dying_. I was just—. How do you feel? What's wrong?" The dark-monster roared but the warmth pushed it back. Rodney's hand against John's cheek again. So _warm_. The warm slid down and grabbed John's hand. No, his wrist. Pulse-taking. Warm against his arm. _Warm, warm, warm_. 

"Too fast," Rodney muttered. "Skin clammy, pulse fast, loss of body heat. _Shock_. You're _sick_ and I'm sitting here—"

"No." John cut him off. He held on to consciousness. To Rodney's worried, shadowed face in front of him. "I'm fine. It feels cold in here but I'm not _dying_. I just—" It was _John's_ job to step up in dangerous situations and save Rodney, he knew that. Military. Duty. He wasn't sure he was doing it at the moment. "Did we use all the pens? Don't touch anything."

"Okay, now you're back to being stupidly self-sacrificial." Rodney got to his feet and bent over to rub his knees. "You're fine, yes. We have at least fifteen minutes before you _actually_ —." He walked off, moving fast. "Let me get back to finding us a way out of here."

John watched the light move away. "We're good at escapes," he called, as soon as he thought his voice wouldn't shake. 

"We are." Rodney sounded more cheerful. "The Pegasus galaxy hasn't built the prison we haven't escaped from, has it?"

 _So far_ , John thought, but he kept that to himself. "They brought us in. There has to be a way out."

"Rock," Rodney called. "Door."

"A rock door?" John nudged the flash laying in his lap. The light moving didn't make him feel queasy any more. "That's—bad."

"No." Rodney's light bobbed frantically as he ran back toward John. "It's good. Very good. It's balanced. When I touched it, it moved. I think all we have to do is give it a push and it will roll aside."

"That's impossible." John watched Rodney gathering up the other pack, stuffing in everything he'd tossed aside in his search for the epi-pens. He knew Rodney was still worried about him when he didn't challenge John calling something 'impossible' that they were seeing with their own eyes. "Who builds a cell like that?"

"Really stupid jailers?" Rodney shrugged into the pack and came over to John. "That's fortunate, because it means when we come back in a jumper and _strafe_ their stupid village, the total IQ of the Pegasus galaxy won't be affected. Lean forward." He helped John slide into his pack. "I'm sorry, I'd carry them both, but I think I should keep one hand free."

"No problem," John said, honestly this time. He was used to wearing the pack. "We'll both keep one hand free for the flashlights, but we need to have our P90s in the other hand."

"Oh." Rodney hesitated. "Well, when I said they left us _all_ our gear—"

"Even weapons, you said."

" _Some_ weapons," Rodney corrected. "I should have specified that we have our sidearms."

"Well, that's something. Are they loaded?"

Rodney moved away and came back carrying both weapons. "Yes." 

John took one weapon and double-checked it, moving carefully because his hands were unsteady and dying from accidentally _shooting_ himself would just be embarrassing at this point. The clip was in place and there was ammo in the clip. He handed that gun to Rodney and took the other one to check. Same. "Okay, yeah, these guys are up for the record for stupidest kidnappers of all time." He let Rodney help him to his feet. The world went all spinny and Rodney was like a _fireplace_ so John pushed his head into the warm and held on.

"Dizzy? Of course, you're _dizzy_." Rodney grabbed at him, his hands fumbling around the pack. "Dizzy, going to pass out, fall, break your stupid head open, and _die_." His voice was all high and tight again. _Breathe_ , John thought. Rodney needed to breathe. "Oh, god, I could _kill_ you trying to save you, but I am _not leaving you here_. Do you hear that, John? I'm not leaving without you, so—pull yourself together and—live. Okay?"

"Okay." The spinny slowed down and John took a careful breath. "Was just for a second. I'm fine. Give me my flash, okay?" He needed to save his strength for whatever was on the other side of the door. Also, bending with the heavy pack on might be enough to topple him over.

Rodney handed him the light. "Okay, you make light, I'll keep my gun aimed in front of us." He slid an arm around John's waist. "We ready?"

"You don't have to hold me up, I can walk." John didn't know why he bothered when he knew Rodney could feel his muscles shaking.

"It if helps your macho self-image, feel free to tell yourself that you're holding me up." Rodney sounded distracted. "Okay, this is stupid." He holstered his pistol and turned on his own flash. "We already know no one's on this side of the door with us."

John tried to help, but it was mostly Rodney's light that picked out a clear path in front of them. John kept his flash pointed somewhere ahead of them and leached as much of Rodney's warmth as he could, without knocking them both over. Rodney didn't say anything, just settled his grip around John's waist and supported his weight. When they got to the door, Rodney made John lean against the wall to catch his breath.

"The door—we're assuming this is a door, is very lightly balanced," Rodney said. "I say, you stay here and give me the benefit of both flashlights so I can tell which way to apply pressure.

"I say you figure out which way it's going to roll first." Shit, his voice was shaking again. "Then I stand near where the opening is going to be with one flash and one gun, in case something comes through from the other side."

"That's—tactically sound. A very survival-oriented thought. Wait here." Rodney's light bobbed over to the door. John tried to help again, trying to keep his light fixed on the area past Rodney's shoulder. "Okay, we're good," Rodney called. "We picked correctly, you're already placed to cover the door."

"Okay." John gripped the flashlight more tightly and drew his gun. He raised it and sighted along the barrel with one unsteady eye. He hoped he was aiming in the right direction, that he didn't shoot Rodney, that the other side of the door wasn't infested with Wraith, and/or that he didn't fall over. He pushed his feet against the floor. "Ready any time you are."

"Okay. Here goes—an exit, hopefully." Rodney's shadow against the rock moved and rippled—no, that was the effect of the light against the rolling rock, he could hear the crunch of stone on stone. The blackness of an opening appeared and—nothing came through.

They waited, then Rodney crept closer to the blackness, shining his flash through, his gun already in his other hand. Nothing moved, so he stuck his head out.

John waited.

"Hmmm.” Rodney stood back. "These are very strange people."

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to shoot you," John threatened. 

Rodney came back over. "There's—it's a tunnel. And I could swear there's a light at the end."

John rolled his eyes, then regretted it. "Not a good time for jokes, McKay."

"No, I'm serious." Rodney turned his flash on his own face, to show John his expression. "I think it's an exit."

"Who poisons you, locks you up _with_ medicine in a cell with an unlocked door right by the exit from the prison? And leaves you half your weapons?"

"Well, I'd assume they didn't expect us to survive to escape, except that whatever they got you with, I seem to have escaped completely," Rodney said slowly. 'I was a little thirsty when I woke up, but otherwise fine."

"So, not poison?" John was too tired for riddles. "Exactly who are these people?"

"I don't know." Rodney looked at him uneasily. "You know, I think I'm almost afraid to go out there and find out."

"Eat something," John ordered. "You said we'd been out for six hours and before then you were probably drugged with _something_. Eat." He let the pack take more of his weight and thought _steady_ at his legs. Probably wouldn't help.

"Oh. Of course." Rodney searched his pockets and pulled out a power bar. He ripped off the wrapper and took a big _in a hurry, no time for blood sugar problems_ bite. He broke off a corner and offered it to John, who shook his head. "I said it had been six hours since dinner," he said thickly. "We're both a little fuzzy from that point on, but we don't know for sure that's when they gave us—whatever it was. Could be a touch of retrograde amnesia."

Somewhere in John's memory, he woke from the darkness of sleep to a movement next to him and an almost inaudible laugh. Then an odd, sweet smell and—nothing. "I think they drugged us after we fell asleep. I almost remember something."

Rodney swallowed and dusted off his hands. "Okay. Done. We ready to do the whole kicking butt and taking names thing?"

"Yeah." John pushed himself off the wall and tested his legs. They'd hold him. For a while, anyhow. "Let's go." He looked at Rodney. "I don't think we need to worry too much about hurting anyone's feelings. Whatever it takes to get us to the Gate. And if we can collect our P90s on the way, that would be good."

"Shoot first." Rodney nodded. "We can steal their wallets later."

"Anything not Teyla, Ronon, or Marine-shaped," John agreed.

"John?" Rodney pulled his gun. "I'm getting you out of here. You know that, right?"

"I know." John nodded. "We're escaping.

"Yes, but." Rodney touched his face again. "I'm getting you out of here," he repeated. "Whatever it takes. You can rely on me."

"Whatever it takes," John repeated. "Always do." He let Rodney pull his arm around his neck, but tried not to lean too heavily on him. If they ran into trouble, Rodney would have enough to deal with.

They headed toward the exit. Rodney's arm around his waist was light, but enough to catch John if his legs gave out. Which, John admitted, they might.

Rodney was right, there was a dim light at one end of the tunnel and it looked a lot like daylight. If John hadn't been so weak, they could have made it in ten minutes, but they had to stop a couple of times to let him rest. 

Still, they weren't more than forty feet from daylight when gunfire broke out in the distance and a much closer shouting— _John! McKay! Colonel! Rodney!_ —told him that the Marines had landed and brought kick-ass back-up.

"Teyla!" That was Rodney. "Here! We're in here!"

"Are you well?" The mouth of the tunnel darkened—Teyla, with Ronon right beside her, hurried in. Her flashlight lit up John and Rodney. 

The light darkened—Ronon stepping in front of her and charging toward them. He pulled John from Rodney's side—the last rest stop hadn't quite gotten John's feet back under him. "Injured?"

"Shock," Rodney said quickly. "A severe allergic reaction to something. He almost—we need to get him home. He needs medical care, _now_."

Teyla slapped her radio. "Major Lorne? We need a jumper at the cave immediately. Tell Atlantis to have a medical team standing by."

John wanted to argue when Ronon swung him up into his arms, but the shock of relief and, if Rodney knew what he was saying, _shock_ , were wrapping darkness around him again. In the far distance, he thought he heard Rodney shouting something about _just shoot everyone_ but that argument was going to have to be someone else's problem.

* * *

It didn't surprise him to wake up next in the infirmary, snuggled under a pile of blankets. _Warm_. He was warm all the way through.

It surprised him even less to find McKay sleeping in the chair next to the bed. His back was going to be killing him in the morning—afternoon—whenever he woke up. 

He could see Rodney. The lights were on. Good to be able to see again. See Rodney's arm—. 

John moved his fingers and identified the feel of Rodney's hand holding his. That was—nice. Unusual, but nice. John hoped he hadn't died again or something. That always pissed Rodney off. He got very cranky about things like that.

Someone walked up to the bed, but before John could turn his head to identify them, the lights went out again.

* * *

Someone poked his head. ”Hey," John said. His voice wasn't as loud as he'd expected. He pried his eyes open. Lights? Check. Rodney was there again—or still— staring at John's hair and running his fingers through it. It wasn't very—manly.

"What are you doing?"

"Playing with your hair," Rodney said absently.

"Why?"

"Because it's the only part of you I _can_ play with, at the moment, without endangering your health or your career." Rodney's tone of voice made it sound like a completely logical response which, when you thought about it? Not so much.

"You thought about playing with—career-endangering?" John was, understandably, confused. He challenged anyone not to have been confused in his place.

"Off and on for the last couple of years." Rodney nodded. "And pretty much constantly more recently."

It was hard to pull off _dignified_ when you were in a hospital bed with a guy petting your hair in a way that felt even better than the hand-holding, but John gave it a try. "Planning to consult _me_ about this at some point?"

"I already did." Rodney looked smug. "You asked me to call you by your first name, and let me hold your hand."

And, okay, true. And the hair-petting, that was nice. Led to suggestions of other kind of touching that— John thought about it. "Okay." He yawned, wondering if he'd missed dinner. "As long as you asked first."

"I'll get you something to eat?" Rodney said it like a question. He stood up which meant, sadly, the petting stopped. "And, before you ask, if you eat something and keep breathing, they're going to let you out of here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" John frowned. He felt _fine_.

"Yes." Rodney looked down at him, one hand hovering over John's cheek. "And, no, I'm not springing you any earlier. You were—pretty out of it, when we got here. You remember?"

Another yawn snuck up on him. "Cave," he agreed. "Dark. Cold. Breathing." He smiled to himself. "Rodney rescued me."

"Standing _right here_ ," Rodney said, tapping his cheek.

"Sorry." John's eyes were drifting shut. "Sleepy."

Rodney sat down again. That was good. "Okay. You get some more sleep."

"Little nap," John agreed. He slid a hand out, found one of Rodney's and pulled it in to share the warm with him. "Wait?"

"Yes." Rodney's fingers curled around his. "I'll wait."

Darkness rolled toward him, warm and soft this time. John slid under it like a blanket, wondering if Rodney would be okay to leave the lights on.

 

**end**


End file.
